Lyndsay Faye - Dust and Shadow

“At the Two Brewers public house, you made the acquaintance of Martha Tabram and an associate of hers, Pearly Poll. Pearly Poll has disappeared into the netherworld of London, but Martha Tabram has the distinction of having been the first woman Johnny Blackstone ever killed in a violent rage. Or at least, the first we know of. I’ve a good approximation of what led up to his bloody deed, but perhaps you could provide more precise, firsthand information.”

Stephen Dunlevy had grown more and more agitated during this narrative. At Holmes’s suggestion, he mopped his brow with his pocket handkerchief and nodded resolutely. “You astonish me, Mr. Holmes, for everything you’ve said is perfectly true. Knowing what you do already, I can hardly fail to oblige you; by the time we arrived at the Two Brewers, we were both in the drink, and we fell to chatting with a few of the girls. Blackstone was everything you’ve said—a very dashing, dark-haired fellow, who’d fought at Tel-el-Kebir in ’eighty-two with the Coldstream Guards. He was near to thirty, so far as I could tell, and very popular with all around him.

“I saw past the fog in my head that we’d stayed too long when a brawl broke out at the next table and Blackstone smashed a bottle against a man’s hand. We left the pub in a disgraceful state, at perhaps ten minutes to two, walking down the road with the girls for a short distance. Blackstone soon enough excused himself so he could duck into a dark crevice with Martha, and I made as if to do the same, but I’d recovered a fraction of my senses by then and sent Miss Poll on her way with a shilling for her trouble. I thought to stake out the entrance of the alley and wait for Blackstone to reappear.

“Five minutes passed, then ten. I returned to the pub to see if he’d changed his mind as I had, for the men we’d fought had gone, but as there was no sign of him, I retraced my steps. It must have been a quarter after two o’clock when a police constable coming out of the dark alleyway nearly walked right into me. I was so startled, I couldn’t think of a thing to do but maintain my charade, knowing that any admission I was not a soldier would lead to awkward questioning. I said my friend, a fellow guardsman, had gone off with a girl and that I was awaiting their return. The constable said he’d keep an eye out for any other soldiers and told me to be on my way.”

“And you took his advice, I believe. It was not until the next day, as you nursed your head and perused the papers, that you learned a woman had been stabbed thirty-nine times.”

Stephen Dunlevy nodded gravely, darting an occasional glance at Miss Monk. “It was as you say, Mr. Holmes.”

“Now we come to the more raveled thread. You determined that, no matter how important your evidence might prove to the Yard, not only were you uncertain about the role Blackstone may have played in Tabram’s death, but your own masquerade put you in such a false position as to make it impossible to consult the police. Not a very manly decision, Mr. Dunlevy, if I may say so.”

“I have these two months been working to redress my mistake,” cried Dunlevy.

“Indeed you have, for when Polly Nichols was killed nearby in a similarly violent manner, you took it upon yourself to discover Blackstone’s whereabouts.”

“He returned to the company barracks the night Tabram was killed—early in August, the seventh, I believe. But he complained of a number of ailments, behaving most irrationally, and soon fell into a low fever. He was relieved of his duties within the week and found himself free of all obligation.”

“And you very astutely decided that he may well have had something to do with the second murder, so you mounted your own investigation. By doing so, you could not only appease your conscience but further your career, for if you managed to discover Jack the Ripper, you would have made a journalistic coup never before equaled.

“It took time to contact Blackstone’s regiment. It took time to locate his friends. Indeed, you went so far as to seek out Pearly Poll to determine if she had any prior acquaintance with Blackstone. This inquiry took you to Lambeth Workhouse, Miss Poll’s occasional address, and there, through a very odd twist of fate, you observed us with Miss Monk. I must deduce that you recognized me and questioned why I was shaking hands with this young lady on the workhouse steps, for I can supply no other reason for your approaching her in a public house with a tale of murder most foul.”

“Mother of God!” exclaimed Miss Monk.

“I did recognize her,” Dunlevy conceded, flushing with colour, “and I had heard of your practice of employing…East-end associates, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson has written of such things. I freely admit I hoped she was an ally of yours and that I might learn something from her. But I wasn’t certain of your collaboration until after I realized she’d taken the extraordinary measure of stealing my wallet and then returning it.”

“You never did!” she gasped.

“It is no reflection on you, Miss Monk; it was expertly done. I always make certain I’ve my valuables about me when I leave a pub. I was about to demand its return when you very kindly replaced it.”

“And is that when you took to tailing me?”

“No, no!” he protested. “It was only after the night of the double murder! There you all were, in the thick of it—I thought you must have known something I did not. It was a far simpler proposition, Miss Monk, for me to follow you through the throngs of Whitechapel than to tail Mr. Holmes in the West-end. And when I learned that your only habitual destination was Baker Street, I stopped altogether, unless—that is to say, excepting certain circumstances.”

“When you’d read all the papers, or when you’d naught to do after tea,” she fumed.

“In any event,” Holmes continued, “Miss Monk was adroit enough to discern your pursuit yesterday, and I wrote you a telegram that I fancied would assure your presence here this afternoon.”

“And the contents of the telegram?” I prompted.

Stephen Dunlevy pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me with a wry countenance.

“‘Miss Monk has disappeared under dark circumstances; meet me at Baker Street at precisely three p.m.—Sherlock Holmes,’” I read aloud.

The lady in question stared in disbelief, at a total loss for words for the first time since I had known her.

“I am sure you will forgive me for having played a small trick on you. Your concern for Miss Monk’s well-being does you credit, Mr. Dunlevy, for all your shortcomings,” Holmes said, swinging his calculating gaze back to Dunlevy. “However, I must be satisfied on one point. You have been in correspondence with your employer throughout your stay in the East-end. Did you inform any members of the press of my own movements?”

“You refer to the article by that dreadful bounder Tavistock. I did mention your involvement to several colleagues, to my lasting regret,” Dunlevy owned with a pained expression, “but only insofar as to say your genius had anticipated the fiend’s attack.”

“And to my lasting regret, your assumption was utterly vacuous,” Holmes retorted coldly.

“Holmes, he could not possibly have—”

“Of course not, Watson. Mr. Dunlevy, excuse me for saying that I asked you here to determine whether you intend to be a help or a hindrance to this investigation henceforth.”

“I am your man, Mr. Holmes,” Dunlevy declared earnestly. “I fear my only real discovery was of his original lodgings, but immediately following the night in question, he abandoned them entirely. I should be overjoyed to offer you any assistance it is within my power to provide.”

“Splendid! Then I bid you good afternoon,” my friend said curtly, throwing open the door. “You may expect to hear from me within the week.”